Spreading Roots
by Little Dandelion
Summary: Dean Winchester has a daughter he doesn't know about. This is how he finds out... and almost gets her killed in the process. My version of what takes place after 'Swan Song.' Completed and posting, in second draft... looking for feedback!
1. Prologue

Dean Winchester pulled his Impala up to the familiar curb, casting a small, weary glance at the house he'd visited just a little while ago.

You know, before he and his brother stopped the apocalypse. And Dean lost that brother.

The very last of his family.

The very last of _anything._

He sucked in a shallow, forced breath, and lightened up on his white-knuckled grip on the Impala's steering wheel. Deliberately slow, he opened the car door and stepped out. The creaking sound of the door closing stung his already aching, tired ears, but he didn't even have the energy to wince at the sound.

A hand still rested on the door handle. It seemed to him that if he let go, he'd be letting go of Sam and any hope that he'd ever come back, that he'd ever see him again.

But that was it. He knew Sam wasn't coming back, not this time. He couldn't help but humor the idea, though.

Letting go of the Impala wasn't going to be easy either, as that single car held practically all of his childhood memories. . . memories that almost always involved Sam.

That simple fact made him take a step closer, closer toward Lisa and having as close of a family as he could get. That was what _Sam_ wanted, and _Dean_ had promised him this. His memories from the Impala wouldn't even _be_ memories without Sam in them, Dean was acutely sure about that. Yes, Dean owed his brother this much.

While he thought about Sammy, a silent, begrudging tear rolled down his cheek. For a minute all he wanted was Sam back, so much so that he'd be willing and ready to deal with the goddamned apocalypse and Lucifer in all of his sulfuric, chaotic glory.

He didn't want to go back to Lisa and live the sheltered life behind a white picket fence, not really.

He _wanted_ a family. Sam was gone, Dad was gone. Lisa and Ben were all that was left.

One more step in the house's direction, this time a little more sure of himself afterward. Although there were still a few lights on inside, it was getting late and Dean knew he had to get a move on.

A faint, cheery jingle interrupted his melancholy thoughts, and he made a half turn, stuck in between going back to the Impala to find the source of the annoying sound and quite possibly smashing whatever it was, or just ignoring it and continue on his journey to Lisa and Ben.

After all, just a few more feet and he'd make it.

"Screw it," He muttered, stalking back to the passenger side of the Impala.

Truthfully, he knew exactly what he was doing. He just wasn't able to believe himself just yet.

The sound, getting louder with each footfall, was coming from the glove compartment. After another long, drawn out sigh, he realized exactly it was.

One of his father's old cell phones.

Grumbling, he opened the door and reached into the glove compartment, rummaging through the copious amount of cell phones until he figured out exactly which one was ringing. He didn't recognize the number, but it's not like he was expecting to, anyway.

Regrettably, Dean answered it. And he doesn't even get a chance to say 'hello'.

"John? John Winchester?"

Go figure, he didn't recognize this lady's voice either. It was however, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Dean was stumped, and not in any mood to deal with her. "He's dead." _And so's the rest of my family._

"Oh—_oh,_" The woman on the other end sounded heartbroken, and through his misery Dean felt a pang of remorse in his steely heart for being so harsh with her.

"But this is his son," He hurried on, but kept his voice just as flat. "Dean."

"Dean—_Dean,_" Did she have some sort of problem with repeating herself. . . OCD maybe? "Thank God it's you, I thought I was going to have to deal with this all on my own."

Slightly creeped out, Dean kept his eyes on the house and his grip on the old flip phoned tightened significantly. "Listen, lady, I have no idea who you are."

"Oh dear, I'm sorry darling! Adele. Adele Baker. You uhm, you might remember my daughter, Kara Baker."

The name alone opened up a floodgate of old memories from his adolescence. _Boy, did he ever remember Kara Baker._ "Yeah, up in Minnesota huh?"

"Yes, yes. . . that's us."

"How is she?" Dean wondered why he was conversing with her or even why he answered the damned phone in the first place, but he couldn't help but ask. Kara was a nice girl, until he got to her at least, and after that he'd never seen her again. So it didn't matter, at least not at the time.

"She's dead." Of course she was. "John came into town about five years ago and, and—a werewolf attacked her. He took care of it."

Dean knew exactly what she meant by that, and his eyebrows about shot through his forehead. Dad never mentioned anything about going up to Minnesota, and Dean sure as hell hadn't been with him. It must have been during one of those times he randomly disappeared.

He felt sick to his stomach for the umpteenth time that night. The conversation had taken a bad turn and he wanted to end it there. "So why'd you call?"

"Something's—now, I know this is going to sound crazy, but something's happening. Been happening, in my house,"

For the next three minutes, Dean listened to about a quarter of the things she listed off. It sounded supernatural; it sounded like a poltergeist. It _sounded_ like she needed his help. And Adele was sure as hell vocal about needing it, too. She nearly begged him to drive up to Minnesota.

If he agreed, this was it for Dean. No backyard barbeques or leisurely Sunday golf games for him if he took this job.

He had to decide now. What he wanted. . . what he needed. Was a family really the right thing for him? Or was it _helping_ other families that he enjoyed most?

The phone call ended with a largely hesitant "I'll see what I can do." on Dean's part. He felt like he had to go check it out at the very least. Adele sounded just as messed up as he was with her family, and he wanted to save what was left of it. If anything there was anything left _to_ save.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," He whispered to himself, throwing the cell phone back into the glove compartment before jogging over to the driver's side of the Impala. "I don't know why, but I just gotta do this."

This family didn't need an entirely possible poltergeist on their hands just as much as Dean didn't need a little brother stuck in Hell.

XXX

My very first Supernatural fic, so please go easy on me if I don't get something right :) Let me know what you think so far, please!


	2. Chapter One, Devon's POV

It was just one tool Uncle Frank needed.

One tool out of an entire set.

Couldn't he just borrow the same one from his garage-buddies? He was a mechanic, he'd restored _hundreds_ of cars in the past twenty years, for Christ's sake. Shouldn't he have another laying around somewhere? His entire garage was littered with them, after all.

Of course, I had to borrow the only damned tool kit in the garage with the one damned tool he didn't have a million spares of. Normally I wouldn't have been so unhappy about giving Uncle Frank his tools back, but _of course_ my mother had to stash them away in the basement last week after I left the case beside the front door.

In the dark, scary basement. More of a crawlspace, really; with six foot ceilings and only one light to see whether you're tripping over a bulky lawn ornament or a decomposing body of one of the poor souls who had gotten lost in the mass of Mom's old Christmas decorations.

On the way down the stairs, I repeatedly cursed myself for even borrowing it in the first place. I'd had every intention to work on my dirt bike in the backyard, but it had rained, as was usual for a fall day in southern Minnesota. So naturally, I just hauled my bike back to Frank's house—who had the heated, wonderful indoor garage—and worked on it there.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, I told myself that it wasn't a big deal. I just had to go in, find the tool kit, and get out. It was as simple as that.

I could smell it already, 'it' being the full force of mildew that resided on all the things that hadn't been moved in almost five years. In reality I had no idea what was down there, spiders and rats being the least I was worried about.

Finally I rushed in, pummeling through all of Mom's once beloved ornaments and other miscreants she didn't have a place for upstairs. In my haste to find the one light down there, I didn't care about whatever I may have been stepping on. All I could think about was the blackness in front of me, and what could reside in it.

Those kinds of thoughts probably weren't the most rational for a teenager such as myself, but I couldn't say I was the most mature fifteen-year-old in the world, either.

My fear of the dark—Nyctophobia, as some people enjoy 'professionally' calling it—was something I'd long accepted, and knew I'd have to deal with it for probably years to come.

Once in what I was sure was the center of the basement, where the light was, I reach and reached, trying to find the decrepit string that attached to the bulb. The ceiling may have been claustrophobically low, but the ball chain was moronically short, and hard for my four foot eleven frame to reach.

When I found it at long last, I could have danced and sung (something you will _never _catch me doing) in happiness. I settled on a few fist pumps and a whispered whoop for joy instead; it may have been just one forty-watt bulb for the entire basement, and it _did_ cast an eerie glow over all of the contents, but I could see for the most part. And that's all that matters.

Most of all, it brought me closer to finding the tool kit and therefore, getting the hell out of the basement while I still could.

My green eyes zeroed in on the tool set almost instantly. It was in the far left corner of the basement, resting against the cement wall and a large cardboard box labeled 'Santa and His Plastic Reindeer'.

I continued on my way, treading haphazardly over the garbage bags and boxes exactly as I had before, just at a slightly slower pace.

Just as my hand touched the tool kit's rough, textured plastic handle, the one little light—my lifesaver—flickered as if it was on the brink of dying out. My palms turned clammy, making the tool kit's handle slick with my own sweat in just a few seconds.

Slowly, I closed my eyes and held my breath, expecting the worst and somehow just _knowing_ it was going to come.

A light, barely audible buzz echoed throughout the basement, and it wasn't until several seconds afterward that I finally worked up the courage to open my eyes.

_One, two, three. . ._

I was met with a wall of pure blackness.

For a moment, I actually hoped I'd gone blind. Anything would have been better than being literally cornered in the tiny, dark and secluded basement.

Unfortunately, I knew better. With my still-adjusting eyes I could just barely make out the small stream of light that flooded in through one of the basement's tiny, mossed over windows.

It wasn't nearly enough to soothe me. Hell, I wouldn't have felt safe down there with all the one hundred watt light bulbs at my own personal disposal. For some reason unbeknownst to me, it was just creepy. Something was off about it; I could feel it in my bones.

Without hesitating, I let go of the tool kit and bolted in the direction of where I thought the door to be, blindly trampling over everything in my path. At that point I couldn't have cared less about how much of a pansy I was being, _I just had to get out of there_—at whatever the cost. Being the klutz I was, I tripped several times over just about everything... even my own two feet.

My adrenaline was pumping then, and all I could focus on was the crack of light that managed to shine through the gap under the door leading upstairs.

I didn't care about what I was crushing under my feet or knocking over with my hands, but it sure as hell made a lot of noise. Ceramic Santa's and tiny, cliché towns that lit up met their untimely death, each falling to the floor with a resounding crash. It must have sounded as if I were stepping on landmine after landmine, I wasn't about to let any of it slow me down.

No one ever asked me why I was so afraid of the dark. Either they weren't even aware because with now being the exception, I was extremely discreet about it, or because they knew better than to bring it up. 'Sharing and caring' doesn't accurately describe me; not by a long shot. And trying to get me to talk only resulted in one long, unnecessary argument and a grudge I'll hold against you for weeks on end.

So I naturally kept it to myself. Hell, I didn't even think about it until confronted with a situation where my fear is able to rear it's embarrassing, pansy ass head.

I hurtled through the basement's door, slamming it shut behind me before leaning against it, so out of breath that I needed it for support. Although there wasn't any light in the stairwell, there was a window across from the top of the stairs and it shone sunlight almost directly in my face.

For a moment, I almost thought I'd have to take a puff of my inhaler.

But like I said, only for a moment.

Due to my stubbornness, I powered through the familiar feeling of my lungs constricting and took as deep of a breath as I could, focused on calming myself down.

It was then I heard people upstairs, and let out a silent groan. No one was home when I got in, so they must have come during the few short terrifying minutes I spent down in that goddamned basement.

Mom's voice I recognized instantly. It was shriller than usual, sounding paranoid while she asked stupid questions like "Oh my _God_, what was that? Do you think—what if it could be. . . it could be. . ."

Typical Adele. Always asking questions, not bothering to figure out the answers herself.

The other, however, was masculine and deep, I felt sure I'd never heard it before in my entire life. Obviously, this person was _new_, and I always had a hard time conversing with anyone I didn't know; or rather I just didn't have the patience to.

By then my asthma was long forgotten about, as all I could think about was what the hell my mom was doing with this guy in our house. She was going on fifty-five, and this dude sounded young, younger than Mom at least. They couldn't possibly have been dating, and Mom wasn't known to have 'friends'.

"Listen to me, just calm down for a minute," His answer wasn't going to suffice for Adele. Oh no, when she had questions she demanded the answers, and that really wasn't a response at all. "I'm gonna check it out."

_Check it out?_ What did he think he was doing, playing a game of Call of Duty?

It dawned on me then. They were talking about _me._ They thought _I _was an intruder or something just as silly. News flash: this was Lake Crystal, Minnesota. Population 2, 420. Break-ins are few and far between around here, and Mom knew that just as well as I did.

To save them from any further trouble, I quietly made my way up the stairs, fixed on confronting the guy. Along with my asthma, I was blocking out how utterly scared shitless I'd just been down there. It would only end up in me stuttering, and stuttering was _never_ good.

Perhaps I could even get him to leave, because whatever reason he's here... well, it's not good enough to deal with someone like my mother.

_Someone like my mom. . . _well, like _her,_ it's a little hard to explain.

There was no way I could avoid the situation completely, as much as I wanted to, because there were no means of escape (at least not on the first floor of my house). The back door squealed something awful when you opened it and shut with a loud bang, similar to the sound of a gun being fired.

In other words, the back door was out of the question. As was the front, because I'd have to go past the two people I was trying to avoid.

So, I finally decided, I'd deal with the situation head on.

I paused in the threshold, managing to balance my sneakered feet on the very edge of the top step. The only reason for my falter was the shadow cast across the kitchen, which I could just about see from where I was standing.

The only thing separating me and Mystery Man was a slab of drywall and an even coating of Mom's lavender-colored paint. I was lost as to how I'd show myself; I imagined he had his guard up and was expecting a fight from the nonexistent burglar. If I just sauntered up from the stairs, I was likely going to get a good punch in the face.

Out of options and not knowing what else to do, I stayed where I was for one fleeting second. Even though I knew better, the vibe I was getting from this situation in general shook my already rattled nerves.

Acting on impulse, I decided that it was now or never. I did what, at that moment, I thought was right; I reached around the corner, grabbing a fistful of the guys shirt in attempt to push him away from me as far as I could. Doing so would also hopefully have him more inclined to leave, because no one wants to deal with a volatile daughter _and_ her crazy mother at the same time, right?

In retaliation, he did the one thing I wasn't expecting him to do. He took my arm that was still attached to his shirt and, in a vice grip, pulled me around the corner and twisted my arm behind my back.

I was stuck. The way he had my arm bent was already beginning to hurt, and if I tried to move at all I knew I could do some serious damage to my arm.

Defeated, I put on a tough face and looked up at him. I also wasn't expecting for him to be so tall, standing at around six foot even, he had a good foot over my much tinier figure.

It only upped the intimidation factor, in his favor unfortunately. I craned my neck around, trying to make some sort of eye contact with him. Aside from the smell of liquor on his breath (he probably had to get himself drunk to go see Mom—smart move) what I saw shocked me, his green eyes were the same color as mine. I mean, they were literally a perfect match. He stared down at me weirdly, as if he'd never seen a teenager before. Or one that attempted to shove him away, maybe.

"I live here, so there's no need to manhandle me." I snapped, then irritated.

My voice was a little wheezy, as if I were out of breath; it got me thinking that I might actually have to take my inhaler pretty soon, because my breathing was still pretty heavy too.

Mom axed the cowardly stance she'd been in beside the stairs leading up to the next floor, on the scene as soon as she heard my voice. "Devon!" She was angry, nothing unusual about that, but she normally contained herself well on the rare occasion that we actually had company.

Mystery Man let me go as soon as he learned I had a name, and after backing away from him, I turned back to my pissed off mother. She stuttered at first, leading me to believe that she was too angry for words. About what, I didn't know, but I was guessing she had caught wind of _something_ I'd done in the past twenty four hours. "I—I can't believe you! You scared us nearly to death, Devon Caroline."

"Ouch," I muttered under what little breath I had left, sarcasm dripping from that one syllable like venom. "Double whammy. You know it's serious now."

Mystery Man shot me a smile at my remark. For the most part, we both ignored my mother, who wasn't nearly finished with her rant about how I should come up from the basement and greet company—or something along those lines.

"Sorry about earlier, kid. Adele didn't tell me anyone else was home. Name's Dean." He said, extending his hand—the same one he had used to pin my arm behind my back—for me to shake with an abashed smile.

While I was grateful to finally learn his name, I merely stared at him, his smile, and his hand. _Dean_ seemed unfazed by my reaction and kept the smile on his face somehow, stuffing the hand he offered for me into the pocket of his jeans. He wore a weathered, brown leather jacket and a plain back shirt underneath.

His eyes completely betrayed his 'uncaring' look and style. There was something within them, something far greater than sadness; loss. A feeling I knew all too well. If it was that easy to point the out his 'fakeness' when we only just met (and you know, had a little hand-to-hand combat), I was beginning to think that maybe my own did the same, too.

Mom abruptly halted her tirade, staring at us like she'd just made a huge boo-boo, and then the look was wiped from her face as quickly as it appeared. Both Dean and I gave her the same odd stare.

I knew what was up instantly. She'd finally noticed that it was two in the afternoon, and that school wouldn't let out for another hour. "Why aren't you at work?" I asked, trying to distract her.

"Why aren't you at school?" She countered, making me groan. Her question only made my breath shorten even more, but she didn't look at all concerned that I could very well have suffocated then and there in our small kitchen... not as if I expected her to show any worry about me in the first place.

"Touché. . ." I said, grinning. Quickly, I tried my best to suck in just enough air to get one more short sentence out. If my lungs continued to do this to me, I'd have to leave soon. "I was—" Another small gasp. "suspended."

She didn't notice that I was quite literally suffocating in front of her. She never would.

Part of me was surprised that Uncle Frank hadn't called to tell her like he said we would when he picked me up today from school, four hours earlier than usual. Then, I remembered, he went back to Jed Foley's garage in one last, fruitless attempt to get his old job back.

He must have forgotten. Either that or he just didn't want to deal with Adele. I let out a groan at the look she was giving me, which was a look that could kill, and Dean's expression said he was in over his head with the situation he'd been put in.

"Why? _How?_" Mom finally managed to utter, her hazel eyes ablaze with concealed rage.

I impatiently tapped my foot, remembering the exact purpose I'd gotten suspended and the reason I even came back home in the first place. I wanted to get back to Uncle Frank as soon as I could, with or without the tool kit I came for. He'd live without it for another day; I just wanted to spend as much time with him as I could.

Next, I made sure to choose my words carefully and make them as vague as they could get. The last thing I wanted was for Mom to find out the real reason why I had myself suspended, _on purpose _no less. "Uh—you know, just a bunch of little things. . . that added up. . ."

I was referring to all of the demerits I'd racked up over the past month. Instead of three, ten strikes and you're out in other words, and of course I'd been planning all of it out. I would only be out of school for a week, and by then... well, Uncle Frank would be gone and I'd be going to school in order to avoid my mother. In that moment, I decided not to mention I got kicked off the baseball team, too.

It would all work out as well as I thought it would. I just had to get away from Mom and everything would be golden—at least for a little while. Before she could head straight into another one-sided argument, I sent a glance between Mom and Dean, who had smartly remained quiet for the past few minutes.

"Listen, I'm guessing he's here for a reason," I started, jabbing my thumb toward Dean while I looked at Mom. "So I'm gonna leave you two alone."

With a sudden grin, I spared them one more look before making a break for it, eager to get away from my boiling mother and the weird stranger.

Uncle Frank only lived down the street from our small two story house, so I could walk there within a few minutes. I had much more important things to do than have a useless argument with Adele, like forcing myself to take a stupid shot of my inhaler on my way down the street.

I tried not to dwell on the new guy, or why he was there, and I'd never admit that _not_ knowing was already beginning to eat away at me.

No, because that wasn't Devon Baker. Devon Baker didn't let people get the best of her.

Most of all, Devon Baker didn't let her curiosity get the best of her.

XXX

Changed the description, but I figured I'd mention here that this starts directly after Swan Song. I didn't get any reviews on the last chapter, but that's okay :) I would really appreciate some feedback on this one, though!


	3. Chapter Two, Dean's POV

Adele just didn't know when to stop.

Dean wasn't even _parked_ outside of the semi-familiar, older lady's house and she was already rapping on his baby's window. Yes, the Impala may have been totaled one too many times, but he didn't take kindly to people nearly beating his window out.

He groaned as soon as he caught sight of her face, quite literally pressed against the window. With her gray-at-the-roots hair, murky brown eyes and massive worry lines, Dean concluded that the middle-aged woman hadn't changed much at all.

Those shots of bourbon he downed just a little earlier weren't near enough to deal with _that._

"Oh, Dean," She gushed, her voice a little raspy from maybe smoking her fair share of cigarettes. Dean frowned, noting that she was around the car in a split second to greet him when he got out. "Thank you for coming—I wasn't expecting you so soon!"

_Geez lady, ease up a little will you?_ But it was true. With nothing else to do and needing something. . . anything to distract him, Dean drove all night from Indiana all the way up to this tiny town in Minnesota. An entire eleven hour drive, done in one night. He couldn't remember the last time he slept.

"It's nothing, Ms. Baker," He muttered, and then was slightly surprised at himself. That was what he'd called her all those years ago, during his time spent in the house across from them and with _Kara._ Too bad she wasn't there to greet him, too. Maybe Adele wouldn't be so crazy then.

He stuck out his hand for her to shake, and mentally groaned when she took it and pulled him into a tight hug. In truth his feelings were split, not knowing whether or not Adele was always this friendly or she was just _desperate._

From what he remembered of the cold, stony-faced woman from years ago, he would willingly bet on the latter. Something _must_ have been up. After the tense hug, Adele left no time to do anything else, having not even invited him into this house.

So he stood, out in the chilly autumn weather, and listened to Adele's story. It was the same old same old, stuff he'd heard time and time again. The lights flickering, stuff moving around, scratching in the walls. Crap being knocked over. It sounded like a vengeful spirit or a poltergeist, something hopefully a simple Salt and Burn would fix.

In the end, he only listened to half of the things she listed off. Yes, she may have been nearly crying in fright as she recalled all the incidents, but now that Dean was there she really didn't have much to worry about. He could do this with his eyes closed.

_Or maybe he was just tired of it all._

"Come inside," She finally offered, and Dean offhandedly rolled his eyes. About time. "You must have been driving all night, poor thing. I'll make you a nice cup of cocoa."

He wasn't in the mood for either of her advances, wishing it was Lisa doing those things for him instead. . . preferably with a nice bottle of scotch instead of the cocoa. That ship had sailed, though. No use in thinking about Lisa anymore; no, he had to focus on the job at hand.

Absentmindedly, Dean wondered if Adele had any other kids aside from Kara as they made their way up the yard and eventually into the house. He certainly couldn't remember any, it had just been the two. No Dad, either. She probably lived alone.

A wave of nostalgia hit him the instant he step foot inside the old house. Aside from the paint, it hadn't changed at all either. When he sat down on a tiny, floral print sofa in the living room and heard that alarming but familiar squeak, he was sure the living room set was the same, too. The place even still smelled like vanilla and blown-out candles, something he hadn't taken too kindly to when he was there all those years ago.

Even though he would never admit it, he was glad he was in a place he somewhat recognized, and that he didn't have to dress up in a stuffy suit and pretend to be a federal agent or a health inspector to even get into this house. Adele's hospitality (however transparent) was paying off in her favor after all. Dean would take advantage of it while it was still there.

Still, it all felt insanely weird without his brother by his side. Like a part of Dean was missing, as if he couldn't give this job his all because _he_ wasn't complete, either.

Dean didn't get the cocoa he was promised.

Instead, as soon as he sat down on the comfortable, worn loveseat, a stark contrast to the Impala's leather seats, a loud ruckus was heard below their feet. Several crashes shook the floor, and didn't stop for almost an entire minute. Dean froze, listening intently, while Adele looked toward him, frantic and her stare penetrating while she nervously wrung her hands together.

"Oh my _God_, what was that? Do you think—what if it could be. . . it could be. . ." She stammered maniacally, then stopped short when the clattering abruptly stopped.

Dean stood, quickly getting into the groove of _hunting _again, and sprang into action. There was something downstairs, and Dean was going to find the problem and squash it, preferably before the older woman next to him had a heart attack.

With a shaking hand she pointed straight, toward the kitchen where Dean faintly remembered another staircase, one that led to the basement. "Listen to me, just calm down for a minute. I'm gonna check it out." He said halfheartedly, trying to take the situation as seriously as he usually would have.

He rationalized that _anything_ could have been down in that basement. Adele, and himself, could potentially be in grave danger. It was up to him and only him to protect them both, and that was _definitely_ something he had to take seriously.

Paying no mind to how the kitchen looked, Dean listened to the stairs creak one by one as they—or _it_—crept up the staircase. Against the wall adjacent to the staircase, he held his breath and counted in his head when the creaking stopped, seeing their shadow cast on the linoleum tile in front of the stairs.

No weird smells or any more noises. His breath wasn't fogging. Nothing too supernatural just yet. On one hand Dean hoped it was just a clumsy burglar, but on the other he wished for it to be a spirit or a monster. Something he could take care of and get out of there as quickly as possible.

Out of nowhere, a small hand snaked around the corner and took a fistful of his shirt, trying with all their might to push him backward for whatever brainless reason. He didn't budge. At first, Dean was somewhat shocked and hesitated. _It_ was more than likely human, but he couldn't fathom why they'd be hiding or trying to fight him.

Unless it really _was_ a burglar.

Seeing as they weren't getting anywhere with pushing him away, Dean took ahold of the person's wrist and yanked them from around the corner, instinctively bending the kid's arm behind her back and holding it there.

Dean was shocked once again.

A _kid?_ A _girl_ no less, had seriously just tried that. She was notably much shorter than him, too, standing at about five foot even, perhaps a little less. The chick had spunk, that was for sure, but he wasn't about to let her go.

Finally she glanced up at him, a glare already set and ready for him on her face. When he got a look at her, Dean was in for another shock that day. She had the same green eyes as him, and it felt as if he were staring into his own eyes for a moment.

"I live here, so there's no need to manhandle me." She said saucily, after turning around even more in his hold to get a better look at him, sounding awfully out of breath. Dean couldn't take his eyes away from her own.

They also shared the same color hair, except hers was much longer, going down to just above her ribs. She wore a pair of boot-cut, washed out gray jeans, an oversized sweatshirt, and a pair of old skate shoes. Dean approved of her laid-back style.

"_Devon?_" Adele called, her straining voice making Dean cringe and tighten his hold on the girl's arm, but once he realized that what the girl, or _Devon _was saying was in fact true; she _did_ live there and Adele _did_ know her, he relinquished his hold on her arm.

After backing away from Dean, Devon turned around to face her then irate mother. While he thought Adele was going to overreact, and _was_ at the look on her face, he wasn't about to get into the middle of _that._

Stuttering, Adele matched her daughter's glare (Dean assumed they were related), giving her a tight lipped sneer. "I—I can't believe you! You scared us nearly to death, Devon Caroline."

"Ouch," The kid mumbled, almost looking blue in the face. Adele seemed not to even notice that small fact, while Dean was admittedly growing more concerned for Devon by the second. "Double whammy. You know it's serious now."

If it were under any other circumstance, and Dean actually _knew_ these people, he would have laughed at Devon's remark. Naturally, he went with the next best thing and cracked a small smile in her direction, actually feeling a little bad for nearly jumping her earlier.

They both ignored the still-ranting woman and Dean turned toward her, offering her his hand. "Sorry about earlier, kid. Adele didn't tell me anyone else was home. Name's Dean." He tried to keep a smile on his face as best as he could, but didn't see much of a point in any of it.

The only _un_surprising thing to happen so far; Devon refused to shake his hand. She was a lot different from her mother in that case. Unaffected, Dean retracted his hand and placed it back in his jean pocket.

Adele stopped talking in the matter of a split second, and Dean shot an odd look between both Devon and her mother. _What exactly just happened?_

Devon seemed to know the exact reason, and fidgeted under Adele's harsh gaze. He still couldn't understand why Adele was freaking out, or why no one, including Devon herself, seemed to notice that she was nearly going blue in the face.

"Why aren't you at work?" The shorter, scrawnier Baker asked, and Dean knew then she was hiding something, or at the very least trying to keep it from her mom.

Quick with a retort, Adele seemed to finally calm down, at least from her fright, and rested a rigid hand on her hip. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Touché. . ." Devon pursed her lips, then broke out into a full grin, even though she was gasping for breath. The kid was finally seeming to notice this, and looked somewhat panicked. "I was—suspended."

For another few minutes, Dean observed the duo with fierce intensity. Adele would get angry over the smallest things, and Devon would be quick to run her mouth. That seemed to be the trending thing for the two. Devon reminded him a lot of himself, and was intrigued by the tiny, tough kid. "Listen," Devon said, waving off whatever her mom just said and jabbed her thumb back toward Dean. He tensed at the acknowledgment, wondering what she could possibly have to say about him. "I'm guessing he's here for a reason. So I'm gonna leave you two alone."

Then she booked it straight out of the house, but not before sending a smirk back to both Dean and Adele. Left wondering what the hell had just happened, Dean stared down through the hall and out to the front door Devon just went through.

It was a lot to take in, the dynamics between those two. This job was proving to be more interesting, and thankfully _distracting,_ than Dean had originally thought it would be. He wondered why Adele seemed completely unconcerned for her daughter, and why Devon showed no worry for _herself._

These next few days were going to be hard without Sam by his side, but Dean would have to persevere. If not for himself, but for the two people he just met. _Especially_ Devon. Now that a kid was involved, Dean had to make sure no one was hurt, and that he solved whatever was happening to Adele.

And for that to happen, he was going to have to question Devon and see what she had witnessed, too. _Oh, _he thought sarcastically. _This is going to be loads'a fun._

XXX

Well, I got one review on the last chapter :) Thank you. I should mention that I have more than a few pre-writes for this story, and if I get more reviews, I just might post more frequently.

Any sort of feedback is more than welcome. The title is working, by the way, and I'm open to suggestions!


	4. Chapter Three, Devon's POV

I walked through Uncle Frank's driveway nearly bubbling with determination; while trying to make sense of what exactly had just happened I realized that if Frank knew anything about Dean or why he was there, he would tell me. I just about trusted him with my life, and I felt sure he wouldn't hold back any details from me. Not any important ones, at least.

Partially I was angry with my mother, too. For the past five years she'd done nothing but keep things from me—this wasn't too big of a thing when I really thought about it—but I was just pissed off with her actions in general.

She didn't care about my feelings, she didn't care what even happened to me. . . not really. Her not so much as batting an eyelash when I was nearly suffocating in front of her was more than enough proof of that.

Up until then that had been just fine, Uncle Frank was always there for me, even though most times I didn't need him to be. Today however, I seemed to crack just a little. She was my _mother._ Just because my sister died when I was ten didn't mean I had to be dead to her, too. That was what was _really_ getting to me, and I didn't know if I could be civil around her anymore. Truthfully, I hoped I wouldn't even have to return home, that Frank could just take me in and let me stay with him

Sadly, that wasn't going to work. Maybe in the past, but not now. Not when he was being deployed to Afghanistan in three damned days.

In order to distract myself from the direction my thoughts were heading in, I focused mainly on the music blaring out of the all-too familiar garage as I neared. Uncle Frank was picky about his music, and that was putting it lightly. It always had to be one extreme or the other, too. Sometimes it was death metal, sometimes it was Frank Sinatra. He liked to keep you guessing, I suppose.

Today, a nice classic Guns N' Roses tune was blasting from his stereo system. Upon entering the garage through the side door, I instantly got a good whiff of gasoline and liquor—a bad combination for obvious reasons—but I would forever and always prefer that over the artificial scent of my mother's house.

I welcomed the familiar scents and sounds and just the feel of my surroundings. This place was pretty much my sanctuary, where I would spend every waking moment if I could.

The music was fitting today, he was working on his most prized muscle car, something he'd been doing ever since I could remember. The old '69 Mustang Mach 1 had been taken apart and put back together too many times to count. Each time it just ran better and faster, too, so his labors of love weren't fruitless.

I pursed my lips, eying his legs as they stuck out from under the car. He reached his hand out just enough, presumably so I could pass him the wrench I was _supposed_ to have retrieved from Adele's house.

When the tool wasn't instantaneously placed into his hand, he wiggled his fingers as if doing so would hurry me up. If not a grease monkey or ill-tempered, Frank was an impatient man. I reached over to the stereo sitting on the shelf across from me to turn the music down. There was no way I could even yell over that.

"It took you long enough, Squirt," He said, and I scrunched my nose at the nickname. "Now where is it?"

"I don't have it," I answered somewhat haughtily, but the last thing I wanted to do today was get into an argument with him. I had to make these last few days count.

From under the car, he stopped his movements and I could no longer hear anything mechanical going on. He used the creeper's wheels to his advantage, rolling out from under the car in less than a second. "Don't give me that look," I said, forcing a small smile. "Adele has _company._"

"Your mom is capable of making friends, Devon."

_Doubt it._ "Not the kind of company that enjoys a little hand-to-hand combat when you first meet." I muttered, subconsciously massaging my arm where Dean had twisted it.

"What? Are you okay?" He demanded, his voice echoing in the large garage. He was on his feet as soon as he heard that I'd gotten into any sort of physical altercation.

Although he may have acted like it ninety nine percent of the time, Uncle Frank wasn't _actually_ related to me. We weren't even some sort of distant cousins. He'd just been my sister's best friend. And after she died, he didn't just disappear from my life like a lot of people probably would have, especially if they had to deal with the likes of Adele.

No, he stayed around and played the role of whatever I needed him to be. Father, brother, _mother..._ even just a friend. He never failed to be there after Kara's death, and without him I wasn't sure where I'd be today. I would never admit it, but he was more of a parent for me than Adele _ever_ was.

Come to think of it, I have no clue when the whole 'Uncle' thing was brought into our situation, but it just seemed right.

"I'm fine." I said halfheartedly, not wanting to breach the subject any farther than I already had. The fact that he'd been able to apprehend me in a split second wasn't something I was proud of.

His amber colored eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he looked me up and down, trying to find any sign that I wasn't in optimal physical condition. "Who'd you say it was?" Brows furrowing, Frank seemed to realize something and it was as if he got a whole lot more interested in the topic.

"I didn't," I replied, not holding his gaze for any longer than a few seconds. "But it's some dude—I'd say he's about your age. His name's Dean, apparently. All I know is he can be pretty fucking handsy when he wants to be."

A hard look crossed over his features when I cursed, but for the most part he seemed uninterested in reprimanding me for my less-than satisfactory manners. He straightened up his posture then, standing at his full height of 5'10". Hey may have only been in his early thirties, but with the stresses he'd undergone lately gray hairs had begun to sprout up on the edges of his widow's peak, a stark contrast to his coal black beard and short, pushed back hair.

"Dean? As in _Dean Winchester?_" I could only shrug in response, wilting slightly when I learned Frank knew this guy's _last_ name. As if my half-shrug was good enough, he gave me one more side glace before marching straight out of the garage, leaving his project unfinished.

That wasn't something he did a lot, if ever.

_First_ red flag.

Another look passed through his eyes, one I didn't recognize. I merely stayed quiet and followed after him, having to jog to keep up with him as he marched out to his beloved truck. The thing was a monster, I literally had to climb into it just to get situated in the passenger seat.

I trusted he could handle this, but the man was practically self-combusting beside me. He shifted the truck into its correct gear before pulling haphazardly out of his long drive way, in reverse the entire time. "So—you _know_ this guy?"

My impatient tone did nothing to faze him, in fact he didn't so much as even acknowledge my question. "How?" I finally demanded, realizing that this was _probably_ pointless. I hadn't seen Uncle Frank like this in years, and like then such a mood was never directed toward me; but I did loathe it when he ignored me.

It wasn't something he did often either, that's for sure.

_Second_ red flag—things aren't looking too good now.

"It's not important." He said after about thirty seconds had passed. While his answer was useless in every sense, I decided not to push it any further, crossing my arms over my chest when he pulled onto the street Mom's house was on. Figuring all I could do was ignore him back, I turned away and stared out the slightly dirty window, watching as we passed the large park I usually tore through with my dirt bike.

Uncle Frank wasn't a confrontational guy. From his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, I could tell that once he got to the house he was going to, in all probability, flip his shit.

_Third red flag. _It's about to hit the fan now.

No more than a minute later we arrived at our destination. Before Frank could park, however, he stopped the truck clean in the street, staring intently at something on the other side of the street. I followed his line of vision, my eyes widening when I caught sight of a '67 Chevy Impala in Frank's usual parking space.

I sure as hell hadn't noticed that when I left, and one could assume I was too busy with my puffer. It was a good thing _that_ hadn't been brought up; it would have opened a whole new can of worms neither of us wanted to get into. And besides, he was worried enough then as it was. I didn't want to put more stress on him, not when I didn't have to.

He reversed the truck yet again, and pulled up so close behind the Impala I almost thought Uncle Frank was _trying_ to hit it. "Stay here." He commanded after he killed the engine, pulling his seat belt off.

"What? You have to be kidding me," _Oh, I know for sure it's serious now._ "You're seriously going to make me miss out on all the action?"

As drama filled as it may have been, I quite enjoyed witnessing him stand up to my mother. Even though I didn't know what it was over this time, my mother thought she could get her way and no one would so much as squeak a protest. I desperately wanted to see her proved wrong, even if it was over a stranger I knew nothing about.

"I mean it, Devon. _Stay put._" I felt resentment rise up like bile in my throat, getting to the point where I couldn't look at him without glaring. "Promise me."

Mentally, I cursed. He knew all too well that once I _said _ I was going to do (or _not_ do, in this case) something, I would always follow through on it no matter what it was or whatever I had to go through to get it right. "Whatever."

It wasn't just some snotty backtalk, my reply. No, it was very much deliberate. He might have thought I agreed, but it was really neutral. I would stay in the truck _if I wanted to._

I could feel Frank's eyes on me, trying to find a find a fault in the way I was talking or even sitting that would lead him to believe I was 'lying' to something I hadn't even agreed with.

Unlike mother dearest, Uncle Frank usually composed himself very well around me, or at least tried his best to. I wanted to know what was really going on... without it being sugar-coated. And that was exactly what Frank would do if I just outright refused to go along with him. So I waited. No more than a minute or two, as I didn't want to miss anything. It should have given him just enough time to get his shoes off.

Feeling like a ninja, I crept out of the passenger side of the truck and ducked my way up to the front door, which I opened and closed soundlessly behind me. But not before tripping over a pair of heavy motorcycle boots I'd never seen before, _of course._ I did my best to conceal my cursing over the shoes, thankful for the small wall that separated me from the people in the living room.

And then I listened. Intently.

Nothing was said for a long time. I almost thought no one was even _in_ the next room, but Mom hated her kitchen because it was so tiny and would never think of inviting a guest into it. So the living room was always her first choice for her sparse company.

"You wanna tell me why you brought him here, Adele? _Bringing him here_, after what happened." Frank's booming voice quite sufficiently cut through the silence, forcing me to use the wall to steady myself from nearly jumping out of my own skin. He sounded disgusted with my mother; it made me choke on my own saliva just from the tone he was using with her. _Okay... I thought it was bad... this was ten million times worse. _World War III was about to break out, I was sure of it.

What was interesting however was not that Frank _knew_ Dean, but the fact that he knew him very well. Enough to think 'bringing him here' was a bad idea, too.

An unfamiliar laugh rang through the room and I could only guess it was Dean's. It didn't sound like he was at all pleased, however, and he was just laughing himself out of the situation so to speak. "Well, it if isn't little Frankie Thompson, in the flesh. Looks like you lost all your baby fat too, huh Frankie Boy?"

_Poor choice of words, Dean. _Very, very poor choice indeed. He would have been better off keeping his mouth shut.

Uncle Frank's rebuttal was silent. A silent Uncle Frank was _never_ good, under any circumstances. Still, I had no clue as to what was going on, just that the two men more than likely disliked each other. That wasn't good enough for me. I wanted to know _why_ they did, and why the hell I hadn't heard about either their apparent feud or Dean until now.

For a moment, I could imagine Frank's jaw jumping as he tried to control himself, too angry to even speak. I knew that look all too well, unfortunately. It was the same one I got whenever I did something especially offensive. "You got a lotta nerve coming back here, Win—"

"Frank," Mom let out a nervous laugh, cutting him off. "Frank, dear. I think we need to have a talk. _In the kitchen._"

Two sets of footsteps could be heard thumping all the way across the house, and I nearly let out a groan. I couldn't hear them all the way down the hall, especially if Adele forced my uncle to be quiet about things.

"You can come out now, you know. I assume you were trying to hide."

Oh, _shit._

XXX

I got three reviews :3 Here's the third chapter, as promised! I forgot to mention that the title credit goes to Led Zeppelin, of course, for their song _Ramble On._ As always feedback is welcomed and appreciated.


	5. Chapter Four, Dean's POV

After hearing Adele's side of the story, Dean thought it was safe to assume she had jumped the gun. Or, at the very least, exaggerated greatly. Yes, by the sounds of if there probably was a spirit taking up residence in her house. Flickering lights, scratching in the walls.

The usual.

It was the stuff people didn't really notice, or at least if they didn't know any better. In this case, Adele did. And perhaps this job did merit a ten hour drive, but from how she sounded the night before on the phone, Dean had been reading to jump in there, his shot-gun loaded and ready with rock salt filled ammo.

Hell, he'd almost been looking forward to it. Some action out on his field would have been a perfect distraction from the things he was trying not think about.

_From Sammy._

Biting back a shudder, Dean shot her a small, almost sardonic smile. "Well, Miss Baker, sounds like you got a ghost on your hands."

Adele looked at him blankly, as if to say 'Duh'. And then the cheery smile replaced the patronizing look she'd been wearing, and all was well once again.

She could have just been crazy. If ghosts and demons were plausible, then this certainly was too. He'd noticed the kid, or Devon, nearly going blue in the face. And how her mother appeared not to even notice or have any concern for her daughter.

That, he deemed, was crazy. A blind man could have heard how Devon had wheezed out her words, like she was on her last breath of air. From the looks of it, she had been.

And that, well. . . that pissed him off. To be honest, he really didn't even want to do this job any more. Adele seemed to have enough knowledge to take care of it on her own. Her family had been dealing with the paranormal themselves, albeit quietly, over the past twenty years. This time shouldn't have been any different. Unless she wasn't giving him the full story, of course.

Crazy people weren't the best with providing all the details, he guessed.

But Devon. If the kid hadn't been involved, he would have left right after the show Adele had unknowingly put on for him. Ever since he met Ben he'd developed a sort-of soft spot for children, and he just couldn't leave her hanging. He kept picturing Ben here, hearing the scratching sounds, seeing the lights flicker. It was the last thing he'd want for him, and the same then went for Devon. Besides, she didn't exactly have the best person caring for her. Anything would help.

"I was in my bed, the other night," Adele launched back into her ghost stories, and Dean gave an exasperated smile. Maybe he just didn't like her, but he'd heard enough. He got it. Her house was haunted. Big whoop.

He doubted Sam would think the same, but he squished such a thought before it could lead him on any further.

"I'll do everything I possibly can, Adele." He interrupted, ignoring the sour look that came over Adele's features as soon as he did so. Again, though, the smile was plastered back on. If anything, he would have liked to add 'for Devon, anyway' but that would have opened a whole 'nother can of worms, and he'd be stuck there on the loveseat that much longer.

With each second that passed, Dean just wanted to leave more and more.

He'd been so close, too.

So close yet so far, unfortunately.

The front door opened with excessive force, and he listened with a frown as someone could be heard hastily kicking off their boots. Through her damn transparent mask, he could tell Adele was irritated at yet another interruption. . . and for not knocking, either.

A man in his early to mid-thirties rounded the corner, a deep frown set into his slightly-aged features. Dean was almost sure he didn't know him, but something about the man seemed oddly familiar.

"Frank!" Adele greeted, her smile had begun to look more and more like a grimace. "I wasn't expecting you today. I thought you were heading down to Foley's. . . again."

Something inside Dean clicked at the mentioning of the name, but he still couldn't put his finger on who this person was, or how he even knew him.

Frank ignored Adele's half-assed greeting, and set his glare straight on Dean, and held it steady when Dean met him with a questioning look. So far, he wasn't liking the vibes he was getting from this guy, at all, or the look he was getting. It was all way too confrontational for his taste. Shortly after, a small bump sounded from where Frank had just come from, the front door in other words. In spite of everything, Dean smirked. Call it intuition or whatever floats your boat, but he just knew someone was eavesdropping on them.

That someone, in all likelihood, was Devon.

"So Devon was telling the truth." Frank stated, tearing his gaze away from Dean only to replace its victim with Adele. Dean didn't feel so bad for her.

Upon hearing her daughter's name, Adele stood from the sofa and threw her hands up in the air, as if she were fed up. "Oh, I can only imagine what she told you!"

_I guess she threw her mask out the window,_ Dean thought with a groan. Even if it was fake, he'd have been more willing to deal with _that_ then _this_ train wreck. Both he and Frank stiffened at the Adele's accusation, and he couldn't help but notice that. He was growing attached to the tough-faced, sort of weird kid already. That probably wasn't good.

He grew to dislike Adele more when she brought her daughter up in such a sentence, not exactly feeling the love within the more than slightly messed up family. She really hadn't changed at all.

It was silent for another moment, it consisting of Dean with his eyes glued to Frank, who was still stumped on how he knew him, and Frank looking ready to kill Adele.

_Maybe that cocoa wasn't such a bad idea. . ._ spiked with a little whiskey, maybe.

"You wanna tell me why you brought him here, Adele? Bringing _him_ here, after what happened," Frank demanded to know, his jaw clenched and a less than appealing vein popped out beneath his hairline, right above his right eye.

_After what happened. . . after what happened. . ._

He came up short, but knew that bad things sometimes happened while on jobs, and something probably did happen when he'd spent his. . . spare time, with Kara. He just couldn't remember the exact details.

To try and ease up the tension, which was thick enough as it was before Frank made his appearance, Dean let out an uncomfortable laugh. It nearly shattered the room's silence, but as always Dean took the awkward moment in stride as he usually would with Sam by his side. "Well if it isn't little Frankie Thompson," He piped up after realizing his laughing did nothing to break the ice. That, and he'd finally figured out who the hell this guy was, and he couldn't hold it in any longer. "In the flesh. Looks like you lost all your baby fat, too."

Judging from the murderous look on Frank's face, Dean almost thought he'd said the wrong thing. But hey, Dean Winchester _never_ says the wrong thing. . . right?

He wished Sammy was there to disagree with him.

With nothing left to try, Dean chose to ignore the tense silence. Briefly, he wondered if Adele would want her kid listening in on all of this, especially if she wasn't aware of the things that went bump in the night. But on a second thought, he concluded that Adele wouldn't care, and if she did, _he_ wouldn't. If Devon wanted to know what was really going on, he wasn't going to stop her.

Devon was doing a decent job with staying quiet, too, except for when it sounded like she'd tripped earlier. A klutz like Kara had been, probably.

"Frank, dear," Adele said, speaking the should-have-been sweet words through her teeth. "We have some things to discuss. In the kitchen, privately."

They left then, presumably for the kitchen, and Dean waited until he could just barely hear the whispers of their hushed argument before cracking a half smile, leaning forward to see if he could somehow catch a glimpse of Devon hiding. "You can come out now, you know. I assume you were trying to hide."

His smirk widened when she swore—somewhat loudly—to herself, and then she stalked out from behind the wall that separated the living room from the foyer. There was no denying she had a phenomenal poker face, but as she crashed onto a recliner on the other side of the living room, it was obvious she was surprised by what she'd just heard from Frank and Adele. He would have been, too, if he were in such a situation.

Barely any of it made sense to him, and he doubted she was able to piece much more together either. Relaxing, he sunk down further onto the recliner, and made herself comfortable. They both looked at each other, silent. While she'd been almost neutral toward his presence when they'd met earlier, her eyes held judgment then, and Dean nearly let out a groan. He guessed she was biased from what she'd heard Frank say about him.

Not knowing what else he could do, Dean decided on a whim to try and make conversation. "So. . . you feeling better?"

She gave him an odd, disbelieving look, then quickly averted her gaze to trace the recliner's floral pattern. Dean could tell that she was even more so surprised; her mom may not have noticed much, but he sure as hell did. Before she could give him a snarky reply as he'd expected, however, Frank waltzed back into the room with Adele following closely behind.

Devon sunk down in her seat further at the sight of the two, but managed a small smirk. One that was very familiar to Dean, too, as he'd worn the same one many times to mask his emotions.

"Listen," Dean started, just wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. "Miss Baker, if you think it's a polter—"

"Devon's going to stay with me until I leave," Frank snapped, interrupting Dean and completely ignoring him. Still lazing on the recliner, Devon perked up upon hearing that, grinning from ear to ear.

That was what Dean was about to suggest, anyway. Adele had sworn up and down that—for some reason unbeknownst to him—a spirit was latching onto Devon. She hadn't given him much more details to go by than that, and for the life of him Dean couldn't figure out _why_ she would think any of this was related to Devon.

No, he didn't have the whole story. Not even half it, from the looks of things. He'd have to do some digging on the family's history whenever he was feeling brave enough to go to a library without his trusty sidekick to do the majority of the research.

"I'd really love to stay and chat," He said, hastily standing from the loveseat. Adele had gotten exactly what she wanted and neither Frank nor Devon knew it. "But uh, I'll leave you guys to it. Adele, I'll give you a call."

He wasn't expecting a goodbye from anyone, and Adele only muttered out a small, meaningless 'thank you' before he showed himself out. He'd been in a number of awkward situations, but that one had really taken the cake. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally got out of the cold air and into the Impala.

The drive across town to the motel he'd be staying at was a (thankfully) silent one, and it was spent wondering exactly how crazy Adele was, why Frank seemed to hate his guts, and what part Devon played in all of this.

_Rainbow Motel,_ despite its colorful name, was anything but. His room—which consisted of a double bed in the center of the room with just enough leg room to get around it and a crappy nightstand—was bland, and that was putting it lightly. The walls were white, and the bedding would have been too if they weren't darkened to a gray from age.

But it was better than the usual dives he stayed at, and he merely shrugged off the indistinctive decorating and collapsed onto the bed, expecting a long night ahead of him.

"Home sweet home."

XXX

It's been a while, huh? I do have a good few more chapters to post, though… and I would really appreciate a review or two. For real :) Tell me what you love or hate about it. I'm all ears!


	6. Chapter Five, Devon's POV

Underneath Uncle Frank's mustang, I was happier than I had been in a while, albeit a little suspicious. He may have only been showing me how to change the oil filter but rarely—if ever—did he let me work on his most prized possession. Only in certain situations did he think it was called for, and even those had to be pretty dire.

Once it was after one of my more extreme asthma attacks where I almost hadn't recovered, but the one that really stuck out in my mind was the very first time he let me clumsily creep under one of his cars. It had been a few days after my sister died, and my being only ten, I'd been pretty useless.

But it had the affect Uncle Frank had intended—it got my mind off _it,_ and I focused only on the task at hand.

To this day I enjoyed it for exactly that reason. Under a car. . . as long as you know what you're doing, things were simple. And when it came to my life, it could have been described as anything _but_ simple.

I didn't think about my crazy mom or my dead sister while under it. I didn't think about Dean, why he was 'visiting' Adele, or why Frank seemed to hold such a grudge against him. Hell, I wasn't even thinking about how I was going to get information out of Frank about today's events.

Even though I could change an oil filter with my eyes closed, I watched and listened to Frank beside me as intently as if it were my very first time working on a car.

I couldn't help but think Uncle Frank was doing all of this to distract me. What was worse, though, was that I didn't really care. For right now, he was with me, and that was all I could count on for the next couple of days. After that I wouldn't see him for an entire year, eight months if I was lucky. Those months would be spent avoiding my mom at all costs and counting the days for him to come back. Because of that, I welcomed this distraction that much more.

I saw the impala before I heard it. It rumbled up through Frank's driveway, the engine almost shaking the ground beneath us. Frank seemed as if he wanted to ignore it. On the other hand, I was just too damn curious, and broke my concentration to glance to the side. With the garage door open I had a clear view of Dean's boots—the very same ones I had tripped on at Mom's house—step out of the car. Frank bristled at the screech of the impala's door as it slammed shut, and if it were under any other circumstances I would have grinned.

Not today, though. I had a feeling that if I didn't try and keep Uncle Frank at least _semi_-calm, a fight was going to break out. Normally, I'd have though a fight could solve a thing or two. I couldn't have Uncle Frank getting hurt—not when he was so close to being deployed. I wouldn't stand for it, and I'd resolve to kicking Dean's ass (or trying my hardest to) if he laid a hand on my uncle.

I chose to ignore the fact that he'd apprehended me in just a couple of seconds yesterday and that he had almost a foot in height to his advantage. I could _totally_ take him.

I let out a theatrical groan and rolled out from underneath the car, not bothered that Frank chose to stay under there like a hermit for a few minutes. I wanted to be the one to greet Dean; perhaps I could scare him away before Uncle Frank had the chance to flip his crap.

These last few days spent with Frank, I did _not_ want them to be bad ones—and I most certainly didn't want to see him leave bruised up. Remembering the tension between Frank, Dean and Mom, I knew there had to be a lot of history between them. It might not have been my place, but I was going to find out what exactly that was. By doing that, I could hopefully squash this problem before it escalated any further.

As Dean approached me, I studied him. His gait was relaxed, if not careless, but I could sense the nervousness behind his eyes. To his credit he covered it well, but _it takes one to know one._

I merely frowned at him in a greeting, setting a hard look in my eyes just for the hell of it. If Frank seemed to think Dean was bad news, he probably had a good reason to think so and he was _probably_ right.

Before anyone could speak, Frank (finally) rolled out from underneath the car, quickly standing to his full height with his arms crossed. In the middle of the two, my gaze flickered back and forth. "You got a'lotta nerve, showing up here."

Dean held his hands up defensively. The action was somewhat effortless, like he was just going through the motions. He looked tired, and I wondered if he was running on even less sleep than I was. "I don't mean any trouble here."

"Is that so?" it wasn't really a question, because Frank would rather have Dean leave than be given an answer.

"I feel like I'm in the middle of a crappy western movie." I said lightly, trying to ease the tension.

"Hey, there are some real classics out there," Dean defended, in the almost the very same off-hand tone I used.

Frank didn't seem very amused by our small talk, however, and I kept my eyes steady on him; silently pleading with him to cool it. Dean seemed to take that as a hint, and addressed my uncle with his hands still partially in the air. "I just want to talk to Devon."

The air bristled between us, and for a second I thought for sure Frank was going to beat the living daylights out of Dean. I _hated_ these moments when he was overprotective of me. . . at least that was how it seemed. Usually I could read him like a book, but today was an exception. I didn't know if he was doing this for me, or if he was just acting this way because of the grudge he'd probably been holding over Dean for years now.

Probably both.

"Like hell she is!" Frank said with a snort, then reached forward with his greasy hands—more than likely ruining my shirt, but it's not like I care particularly anyway—and pulled me back as if Dean was contagious. "She's not getting involved, Winchester. Not ever."

Involved with _what?_ Frank really shouldn't have let that one out of the bag. Now, I had something to go on, and I would be that much more incessant from then on. I was smart enough to keep silent and listen, because they didn't seem too concerned about withholding too much information at that moment.

"I'm not _trying_ to involve her," Dean sounded like he was starting to get irritated with Frank now, too. "But she deserves to know the truth, Frank. You're doin' more harm than good by not telling her. This could be dangerous."

"Get out; get the hell off my property." I'd never seen Frank lose his cool, not like this. He was one the verge of being out-right enraged. On the surface, he was hiding it well. But I knew better.

With a wry smile, Dean didn't hesitate to turn and leave, but instead shot me a look as he left. "I'll see you soon, Dev."

It was silent, first we watched Dean leave, and not until I couldn't hear the impala rumbling down the streets off in the distance did I decide to speak. "You gonna tell me what that was about?"

_Usually_ I wouldn't have had to ask that. _Usually_ he would have told me if it was important. And this? This was pretty much as important as it got.

He didn't say anything, not even so much as a 'no.' I counted to ten in my head. Gave him time to collect his thoughts, calm down. I gave him a chance, and he didn't even bother looking at me. A jolt of fear rose up my spine, first because, in my mind, it looked like my Uncle Frank—the one person I could always depend on—was turning into Adele.

Not telling me the whole truth. Not thinking I _deserved_ to know.

Then rationality kicked in. And I realized that, however unreasonable, Frank thought it was better that I be left in the dark about this… about whatever was happening between him, Adele, and Dean. But according to Dean, it seemed like I was in the middle of all of it whether I liked it or not.

"Of course not," I muttered, turning away and heading out through the still open garage door, following Dean's footsteps to a tee. He didn't try to stop me, but there was no surprise there. He knew I needed some time to myself, so I took a sharp left and plodded through the freshly cut grass of his back yard to his shed, where I stored my dirt bike.

The shed was, essentially, my own. It was a place where I didn't have to share my tools—whatever was there, was mine. Sometimes I liked to hang out in Frank's garage (I.e. when it was cold out. The shed wasn't heated), other times I preferred the solitude of working alone, just me and my bike and no one to answer to.

Today wasn't normal, though, and I felt no desire to hang around, especially with how that last conversation went (or _didn't._) After hauling my bike out the claustrophobically sized storage shed and starting it I tore through Frank's yard and turned onto the road, making sure to be extra loud in an effort to get my point across.

With the sun setting, it was getting colder and colder by the minute. I didn't mind it, focused on getting off the road as soon as I could. Despite how much how much I used my bike as a mode of transportation, it wasn't exactly legal. If a cop saw me I was screwed. I didn't very much like the idea of getting my dirt bike confiscated, so I avoided it when I could.

My only other 'usual' spot in town was Robinson Park, just a few minutes away from Adele's house. To a lot of people it was too creepy to visit, with its dead trees and eerie silence—but for me, it was perfect to explore with or without my bike. In the heart of the park was a small pond, and I liked to frequent it whenever things got to be too much for me to handle.

A safe distance away from the pond, I cut the engine on my bike and got off, leaving my helmet resting on one of the handles. I couldn't swim, so I always felt better when I was a little further away, but just close enough to enjoy the view.

It was nice to sit down after the day I'd had, but it was impossible for me to relax. I didn't know enough to even feel comfortable trying. Not only did I not know _anything,_ but _everything_ was changing. Uncle Frank was turning into my mother, and my mother was acting even kookier than usual. Dean. . . I didn't even know where to place Dean on that spectrum.

Not to mention what I'd heard in the living room today. Something was going on, and while my better senses were telling me to stay away, I just didn't know if I could resist.

XXX

I still have lots of pre-writes for this story guys—so now, as crappy as it may seem, I'm just posting as I get reviews. Than you to deadlikedoctorwho and princess-mariyah for their reviews on chapter four. It means a whole lot to hear from you guys! If the reviews keep coming, I will continue to post :)


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